


Staring the truth in the face

by The_ink_blot



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, I'm Sorry, Minor Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 07:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18796135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_ink_blot/pseuds/The_ink_blot
Summary: The battle of Winterfell as seen through the eyes of those who lived it.A series of short drabbles in (mostly) chronological order.





	Staring the truth in the face

**Author's Note:**

> Rated for language and violence. Additional chapters may be added. Written for a friend.

Sansa  
The crypts of Winterfell had always been silent. For as long as she remembered, the darkness looming over her ancestors had made the entire chamber cold and empty. It was easy to forget about the dead slumbering beyond the stone. Their lingering souls only manifested in the form of their likenesses, carved lovingly into the stone.

The crypt was dead no longer. As Sansa stepped into the room, she was struck by hushed sounds, human sounds. The soft sob of a child. A woman’s soothing whispers. The low rumbles of a man’s voice. 

Varys sat against one of the walls, undoubtedly muttering something clever and insightful. Tyrion sat nearby, head ducked.

Sansa stepped forward. The click of her boots against the stone caught the attention of the crypt’s new residents. Tyrion looked up, his hand clutching a wineskin, as did Daenerys’ friend, whom Sansa had seen spend more time with the Unsullied than the northern women.

“Lady Stark.”

“M’lady.”

“Lady Sansa,” Tyrion shifted, indicating the ledge he was sitting on. “Please, join us.”

Sansa took a breath. She moved to sit with her former husband. 

A thump sent dust cascading from a spot in the ceiling, high above them. The battle seemed to intensify above them. A few frightened helps replaced the soft murmurings of the crypt’s occupants.

Varys sighed, nervous yet resigned, “At least we’re already in a crypt.”

A muffled sob echoed through the chamber. Sansa glared critically at him. Tyrion leaned over, tapping nervously against his knee, “If we were up there, we might see something everyone else is missing. Something that could make a difference.”

Varys scoffed.

“What? Remember the Blackwater? I brought us through the mud gate.”

“And got your face cut in half,” Varys retorted.

“And it made a difference,” Tyrion bit out. “If I was out there right now…”

“You’d die.” 

The room stilled.

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“You might be surprised at the lengths I’d go to to avoid joining the army of the dead. I could think of no organization less suited to my talents,” Tyrion took a swig of wine. 

“Witty remarks won’t make a difference. That’s why we’re down here; none of us can do anything.”

Tyrion looked at Sansa in disbelief at her bluntness.

“It’s the truth,” Sansa insisted. “It’s the most heroic thing we can do now: look the truth in the face.”

Tyrion looked away, then met her gaze with humor in his eyes, “Maybe we should have stayed married.”

Sansa smiled gently, “You were the best of them.”

The answer seemed to surprise him. Tyrion’s face danced between concern, humor, and something deeply sentimental, “What a terrifying thought.”

The corners of Sansa's mouth tugged briefly into a smile, then slowly began to fade, “It wouldn’t work between us.”

“Why not?” If Sansa didn’t know any better, she’d say he sounded a bit offended.

“The Dragon Queen. Your divided loyalties would become a problem.”

Tyrion nodded understandingly, though his expression remained mournful.

“Yes.” 

Sansa looked up and locked eyes with Daenerys’ friend. The woman whose name Sansa couldn’t remember lifted her chin, “Without the Dragon Queen there’d be no trouble at all. We’d all be dead already.”

The woman looked away bitterly. Sansa couldn’t help but wonder what had created such dedication, such devotion in her, “Meaning no disrespect to your queen, my lady.”

The woman startled at the title afforded to her. She recovered quickly, “Your Queen too, now.”

“Yes, I suppose she is,” Sansa sighed. Tyrion glanced warily at her.

“You do not believe she should be queen?” The woman’s gaze turned almost accusing.

“Not here. Not in the North.” Sansa scanned the statues of her dead ancestors, “We have spent generations being betrayed by foreign kings and queens. My father always said Northerners are different, more loyal to one another.” 

Sansa stood and stepped slowly towards the woman. Sam’s friend, Gilly, watched the interaction warily from next to Daenerys’ friend. 

“We can no longer be ruled by a southern king. Or queen for that matter. We had no king in the north for centuries before my brother.”

“And I’m sure your brother is a great leader. He bent the knee, after all.”

“Yes, Jon bent the knee. But he wasn’t the brother I was referring to.” 

The woman looked at Sansa inquisitively. Sansa smoothed her skirt and sat nearby, “Before Jon, our brother, Robb, was named King in the North. He died trying to avenge our father and bring home myself and my sister. And he is hardly the first to have been betrayed by our southern neighbors.

“So you see, my lady,” Sansa smiled a bit conspiritally, “I mean no disrespect to your queen. It is the principle of the thing. My people chose Jon, and we will not suffer the reign of another southern ruler, no matter her virtues.”

“I understand your warriness,” the woman’s voice was softened by sympathy. “Trust me, I do. You are not the only one to be threatened by outsiders. But Daenerys is not like the others.”

Sansa’s smile dropped a bit at the rebuttal.

“Still, if what you say is true, I cannot see why my queen should deny you self rule.”

Sansa looked up in surprise. The woman smiled at her with the sincerity of an apostle preaching their faith.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name earlier, Lady - ”

“Missandei. And I’m not a lady,” Missandei ducked her head.

“My sister often says that, but it doesn’t make it any less true.”

A rumble echoes through the walls of the catacombs. A few muffled gasps and sobs arose from those taking refuge. Next to Sansa and Missandei, Gilly tugged her son to her chest.

The knife Arya had given her weighed heavily at her hip.

Arya  
As the dead clawed their way to Winterfell, Arya was glad she had sent her sister below. Sansa was a politician, not a warrior. She would’ve died.

They were probably going to die.

The flames having been extinguished in places by their fallen comrades, the dead had begun their ascent of the walls. The volleys of arrows did little to quell the tides of dead men.

Arya dropped her bow. Someone nearby barked an order she couldn’t comprehend over the rush in her ears. The spear Gendry had made for her worked its way into her hand.

Gendry. She’d see him after she survived. After he survived.

The blade met its victim, again and again, as the dead swarmed the parapet. She felt herself fall into the rhythm of Bravos, twisting and stabbing and evading in the manner of the Waif. Her spear became a staff, her surroundings a damp, empty chamber. She was No One.

The spear split in two. The dead fell around her. Gifts returned to the hands of the Many-Faced God.

It wasn’t enough. The dead were heading below.

Sandor  
The fucking fire. Why was it always the fucking fire?

Sandor pressed his head against the frigid stone. Winterfell fell around him, consumed by the hordes of dead men and barely protected by a ring of flames.

And he was cowering in the corner. Just like the Blackwater.

“Clegane!”

“Oh, shut up,” Sandor hissed.

“Clegane.” 

It was louder this time. Beric slashed his way to the Hound’s hunched form.

“Fight! What are you doing, Clegane, we need you!”

“Fuck this! We’re all going to die, ripped apart by dead men, what’s worth fighting for? Nothing.”

Beric started silently at him, his anger and disapproval practically tangible.

A sudden bang split the air. Beric turned at the noise. Sandor ducked his head once more.

“Tell that to her!”

Sandor lifted his head in time to see Beric jab a finger in the direction of Arya Stark, tumbling from the parapet, bleeding and pursued by the enemy.

The dead still bellowed. The world still burned. 

Fuck the fire.

Fuck the dead.

Sandor took off after the Stark girl, Beric following close behind.

Lyanna  
Lyanna wondered how her mother had died.

The thought hadn’t crossed her mind until the battle had begun, but it hadn’t felt new. It had the wisp of familiarity that made her think that it had been there a while, drifting around in her head, and was only now being recognized.

She must’ve died bravely. Her mother was brave. She was strong.

Something barreled into the gate, making the entire structure shudder. It hit again, and again, then the wood gave way altogether.

The creature roared.

Lyanna spun.

The gaze of a living girl met a single eye, as blue and lifeless as ice. The undead giant waved its club as it barreled forward. Lyanna barely had time to think before the impact flung her tiny body aside.

The world went numb on impact. Was she in pain? She couldn’t tell. All she could feel was a heat, unfamiliar and out of place in the deadly cold of the long night.

A tightness seized Lyanna’s chest. Had she broken a rib? Her back? It felt like it. Her temples throbbed at the burning pain. Hot blood seeped from her forehead. Screams rang in her ears.

Her men screamed as they too were mowed down.

Her mother died fighting.

Lyanna pushed herself to her feet.

Her mother was strong.

The dagger was lead in her hand.

She would be like her.

She screamed at the giant.

She was a Mormont.

The giant turned to see the little person he’d failed to finish off. Enormous fingers wrapped around her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. She felt herself drift higher, higher. Close enough to taste the monster’s breath. Enough to taste blood on her lips.

Here we stand.

With a final desperate, triumphant cry, Lyanna plunged the dagger into the giant’s one good eye. The reignited spirit seeped from the creature, the icy blue quickly fading to emptiness. His body stiffened, then slumped. He collapsed, alongside his prey, on the frozen ground.

Lyanna was gone before she hit the ground.

The battle raged on, but not for her. Lyanna Mormont had joined her mother.

Arya  
The halls of her home loomed, unfamiliar, overhead. The blow she’d taken had sent her reeling, torn all sense of direction or training from her mind. She could already feel the blood drying at her temple.

The library was empty.

Until it wasn’t.

The snarls of the dead were worse than animals. The sound caught her heart in a vice grip and squeezed. 

Arya dashed between the shelves.

Animals were vicious, but only when provoked. Only when the choice between death and survival clawed at their instincts.

She slid beneath a table. A pair of decomposing boots appeared in her line of vision.

The dead had no souls left, but the still reeked of something distinctly human. It echoed in the way they mercilessly attacked their prey.

The creature dropped to look under the bench.

They were puppets. Their movements were jerky and unnatural, controlled by some unseen force. Even the sounds that spilled from their lips sounded hollow.

She was already gone.

As she rounded the corner, she was as light as a cat. Quiet as death itself.

An undead girl emerged in her path.

A knife sunk into crumbling flesh.

Arya caught the girl before she hit the ground, slowly sliding her to the frigid floor. She slumped, once again lifeless. Arya slipped away from the corpse, away from the dead men in the library.

Grey Worm  
The Unsullied has been all but slaughtered.

His brothers, most of whom he’d known since before he could remember, had fallen around him to a wave of dead men.

He swallowed back the fear, the anger, the sadness.

The chill of winter bit into his skin as he sliced through the hordes of corpses, yet sweat began to bead at his temple.

There were so many. How could they even hope to defeat them all?

Maybe they couldn’t.

No.

He couldn’t afford to think like that.

Daenerys, his queen, needed him to help take her throne back.

Missandei.

She was in the crypts below his feet. If they were defeated above, then it wouldn’t take long for the dead to make it below. She would be safe so long as he was alive, fighting against the dead men. 

He had to keep fighting. He would make it out of this. They both would. 

He sliced through a dead man’s head.

He would see her smile again.

He stabbed a frozen bear through the heart.

His queen would sit on her throne.

A limb fell to the ground, unrecognizable among the piles of corpses.

He would take Missandei back to Naath.

The dead snarled.

He would live.

Sandor  
He knew the Stark girl. Knew her better than most people, he’d bet. It was no surprise that he had to drag her kicking and snarling from the fight.

Beric fucking Dondarrion. He was on her little list, wasn’t he? Sandor couldn’t fathom why she was so desperate to run to his aid.

He was being ripped to pieces by dead men for fucks sake.

She probably wanted to kill him herself.

He wondered how far she’d made it down that list. No doubt she’d crossed off a few names.

Arya wriggled enough to break free of his hold. She tumbled to the ground and shot to her feet and the next thing he knew Beric was limping alongside them.

Fucking Stark girl.

Fucking lord of light.

They just made it through the door. The great hall was empty, but a fire still burned behind the long table the fancy highborn fucks liked to sit behind. Beric all but collapsed. Sandor wasted no time in barricading the door.

Arya was no help. She just leaned over the one eyed man and watched the shallow rise and fall of his chest grow fainter and fainter.

Sandor was satisfied with his work keeping the dead out soon enough to watch  
Beric die. His last time, he presumed. 

Arya just sat there for a moment. The man she’d intended to kill had died for her. Must’ve been a hard truth to swallow.

Beric fucking Dondarrion. 

“He didn’t die for nothing.”

Of course the red witch was there. Why wouldn’t she be? The gods loved their irony. It made sense he’d be trapped with a fire witch.

“You.” 

It seemed he wasn’t the only one who harbored a distaste for the woman.

“You said I’d close many eyes forever.”

Of fucking course she did.

“Brown eyes, green eyes…and blue eyes,” the red witch stared at the girl with an uncomfortable intensity. The Stark girl stared right back.

Then a look of realization dawned on her face. Sandor didn’t like that look. It usually meant Arya was about to do something reckless and stupid. And that usually meant trouble for him.

Arya tugged a dagger from a sheath at her back. The blade gleamed in the light.

From the look on her face, she knew exactly what to do with it.

Arya Stark. Arya fucking Stark.

It seemed there was no escaping her. He tried to feel annoyed.

But instead he felt the oddest sense of pride.

And that only made him feel annoyed with himself.

Arya fucking Stark.

Tyrion  
As the walls began to crumble around them, Tyrion was struck by a sudden, horrifying realization.

The dead were rising.

And they were trapped in a crypt.

Next to him, Sansa flattened herself against the stone. Her fingers were still curled in his cloak where she had grabbed and tugged him behind her father’s statue.

Screams filled the air on the other side of the statue they’d sought refuge behind, screams of the women and children mauled by those things.

None of them were safe. 

They’d probably be dead soon.

Tyrion nearly jumped and the soft, feather-light touch of a hand on his arm. He realized, relieved, that the hand was Sansa’s. Without hesitation, he covered her hand with his, linking their fingers together.

Sansa turned her gaze to him. In the candlelight, she was barely visible. Still, she could see well enough to catch his gaze. There was terror in her eyes and the quiver of her mouth. 

But there was also strength and courage, the kind of bravery that came from looking the truth in the face. In that moment, he’d never been more proud.

Her free hand drifted shakily to her waist. He watched in confusion as she drew something from the fabric of her dress and held it out in the light. 

A dagger gleamed in the dim candlelight.

A dark thought drifted into his head as his gaze flickered between the weapon and her pale face. For a moment he could almost see the textured grey of her dress stained a muddy brown with blood, a dagger plunged into deeply her heart.

Then she turned back to him and the image was gone. She was no fighter, but she loved her people. She would not abandon them to the enemy. They would probably die, but at least they could make a difference before that happened.

Tyrion pulled a small dagger of his own from his waist, his eyes never leaving hers. The courage fell from her face, and fear, raw and desperate, took its place. But the determination never left.

He tried to convey with his gaze everything he couldn’t say. The pride, the readiness, the understanding. He couldn’t tell if it read in the darkness, but he wanted her, needed her, to know. 

With a final burst of courage, Tyrion lifted their joined hands to his face, and pressed a kiss to her gloved knuckles. She looked at him with a vulnerable expression, one he had not seen since before her father had died. He wished he could read the raw emotion she offered.

As their joined hands dropped once more, Tyrion offered her a soft smile. Then, with dagger in hand, he turned to face the enemy.

Brienne  
The dead were just as difficult to kill as the living. The sheer number of corpses crawling towards her was enough to rip screams from her throat. 

Her sword swung. It was coated in so much blood and grime that the steel was barely visible.

Jaime was next to her. He had been since the battle began. He was doing well, even with his right hand gone. Well enough to survive at least.

And right now, that was all that mattered.

Another soldier fell to the swarm with a muffled scream. Podrick slashed at the creature that took him, but the poor man was already gone.

Focus. She had to focus.

It was unnerving how easily she could distinguish between the recently fallen and their long-dead counterparts. She tried not to examine their faces as she cut them down, afraid of recognizing a fallen comrade.

Gilly  
She was safe. Little Sam was safe. Her baby was safe.

The bald man and the queen’s friend had pulled her with them into an alcove. A few others were there too. A woman with a long streak of grey in her dark hair. A little boy a little older than Sam. A little girl with a scar that reminded her of the kind princess she had met long ago. The princess who had helped her learn to read.

Gilly didn’t look as they screamed. She ducked her head and held her son to her chest and tried desperately not to cry.

She had survived when she was still north of the wall. She could survive the dead men. They weren’t even white walkers and they weren’t after her boy the way the Others had been.

A desperate sob filled the air. Before she could stop herself, Gilly looked up. A young woman collapsed on the ground, a pair of dead men standing over her.

Then they stiffened. The suddenly they crumpled to the ground.

Standing in their place were the short man and the fire-kissed lady. Lady Sansa darted forward to pull the woman off the ground while Lord Tyrion turned to make certain they were safe from behind. 

Missandei reached out to take the shaking woman from Sansa. Tyrion joined them a second later. Both he and the lady held blood-smeared daggers in shaking hands. 

Tyrion’s eyes lingered on them each in turn. As they caught hers, she could see the question in them.

Are you alright?

She nodded imperceptibly. A small smile made its way onto his face. He raised the dagger in his hand and covered Sansa’s free hand with his own. She gazed at him briefly, drinking in his small stature, then turned to look back out at the carnage.

Together, the lord and lady emerged from the hiding space, determined to save more — just one more — of their companions.

Gilly murmured a prayer to the gods of her people for the pair of them.

A soft touch. Missandei slipped past her, towards the opening of the alcove. Gilly watched her for a moment, puzzled by her actions.

Then another fortunate soul was passed into the woman’s waiting arms and tucked away safely among the rest of them. 

A flash of red hair. The crunch of dead men hitting the floor.

She would not die tonight. And if the gods were good, neither would the brave people she had found herself with.

Theon  
He was blue, the color so vivid and cold that Theon could hardly believe it existed. It wasn’t the sky’s bright hue, nor the deep shade of Sansa’s dresses. It wasn’t the sea.

It was as far from the sea as he was.

So many ironborn had died far from the sea these past years. It looked like he’d be joining them.

The air around him froze as the Night King approached. The wights and white walkers stood motionless around him. Bran sat in his chair, the heart tree bent over him like a septa holding vigil. The ironborn were all dead. He was the only one left.

He was out of arrows. His bow was useless.

“Theon.”

Brandon Stark watched him with heavy-lidded, emotionless eyes.

“You’re a good man. Thank you.”

Theon positioned the spear in his hands.

The blue eyes of the Night King watched him. His gaze was cold. His eyes reflected death.

What is dead may never die.

Time slowed. Theon screamed as he charged the king.

The spear never made contact. It slipped from his grasp, tugged away by an impossible strength. The wood snapped. The sharp tip met its mark.

His own spear driven deep into his abdomen, Theon collapsed onto the ground. Blood sprayed gently from his lips as he breathed. The king stepped over him.

It was a cruel irony. Here he was, dying so far from the sea. Theon Greyjoy, the last surviving son of Balon Greyjoy, dying for the very people who’d held him captive.

His family. He was home. 

There, in the godswood, Theon drew his last breath.

Not as a Greyjoy, but as a Stark.

Jon  
Viserion was a shadow of his former self. He was a collection of bones, held together by leathery skin and an unseen force.

His fire was blue. As blue and cold as the ice he’d crashed into. 

Jon threw himself from the path of the flames.

Winterfell was crumbling. Only a few were left. They were losing.

He had failed.

Jon caught the slightest bit of movement in the corner of his eye. 

Arya. His little sister, because after everything she would always be his sister, slipped into the courtyard.

In one hand she held a dagger. The dagger that had almost killed Bran. 

She eyes the dragon. She gazed in the direction of the godswood. The determined gleam in her eye hinted at her murderous intentions. She appeared as the wolf he’d always known her to be: dangerous and beautiful. 

Arya leaned down, preparing to to sprint in the direction of the godswood. 

Realization surged through Jon, more violent than the pounding of his own heart in his ears. At that moment, he felt a surge of pride. His little sister had changed. She’d grown up wild and alone and had managed to survive when few others would’ve. And now, she might just be their only hope.

She could die, a soft, protective voice at the back of his head reminded him. He shook it off. They were all going to die. This might be the only way they wouldn’t. 

Growling, Jon pushed himself from the fallen stone he’d found shelter against. He stared the undead dragon in the face, watching as what was left of its jaw dropped open to hiss at him.

His throat stung as words were ripped from his lungs, “Go, go, go!”

He didn’t look to see if she made it. He was too preoccupied with the spark of blue building in the skeletal remains of Viserion’s throat.

Jorah  
Daenerys was on the ground.

Drogon struggled to throw off the corpses that clung to his wings. Daenerys watched him struggle, seemingly unaware of the danger she was in.

“Khaleesi!”

Daenerys turned to see Jorah cut down a wight before it could reach her. She appeared startled.

Jorah turned his back to her, sword outstretched. He threw the blade in a wide arc, desperate to keep the creatures away.

The sound of metal cutting through air caught his attention. Daenerys had her back to him, a sword clutched awkwardly in her hands. 

Screeches filled the air as the dead converged on them.

Jorah grunted as he threw himself in front of Daenerys as a dead man lunged at her with a dagger. A piercing pain blossomed from his leg. He swiftly cut the creature down.

A distressed yelp escaped Daenerys’ throat as she watched him take the blows meant for her. Jonah’s vision grew spotty. He was losing blood. Quickly.

That was alright. If he was to die today, he would die for her. He would protect her. He wouldn’t fail her.

He loved her.

Here I stand.

Until the end.

Bran  
The three-eyed raven sat alone. The corpses around him weren’t real people, not really. The only other soul in the godswood was Theon, and his life was slowly slipping away.

The Night King stepped over the body of Brandon Stark’s brother. His eyes glowed. The air shivered.

Everything had come to this. The three-eyed raven knew how it all would end. 

And yet somewhere deep within him, a seed of doubt was buried. It was right next to what remained of Bran, nestled against the soft warmth of his mortal soul. 

But he wasn’t Bran anymore. 

And so he waited.

He was perfectly still as the Night King towered over him. He reached slowly for the blade at his back. In his eyes, perhaps, he had already won. The two of them had all the time in the world.

A gruff cry shattered the silence of the godswood.

Arya Stark dropped from above, the catspaw dagger poised in her fist.

The Night King spun, apparently unfazed. The hand that had been reaching for his blade caught her exposed throat.

An inhale.

Arya hung suspended above the ground, the dagger still gripped in one hand.

An exhale.

The dagger dropped, spinning toward the ground.

The three-eyed raven almost smiled.

Her free hand, waiting with an open palm, caught the dagger in midair. With one swift motion, the blade plunged deep into the king’s torso.

Shards of ice erupted from the hilt of the weapon, splintering outward until the creature’s entire body fell to the ground as broken as a shattered mirror.

Arya fell to the ground. Behind her, the rest of the white walkers began to shatter, one by one. The dead fell to the ground, as lifeless and still as the corpses they were.

The faint sounds of battle that had cushioned the godswood slowly fell silent. 

Arya stood shakily. Her chest heaved. She looked at the three-eyed raven, the soft resemblance of a smile forming on her bruised and bloodied face.

After a moment, Bran smiled back.

Jaime  
The dead collapsed.

Jaime gasped for air as the corpses slumped to the ground. Like flames snuffed out by a harsh wind, the blue in their eyes flickered, then vanished entirely.

He watched them fall around him. He held his breath. Then he turned.

Brienne was behind him, somehow still standing. Somehow still alive. Somehow more beautiful than anyone he’d ever seen.

The sword slipped from his hand. Brienne turned to him as it thumped to the ground. The look on her face was one of disbelief. 

His feet moved of their own accord. His arms lifted from his sides, even though he had to strength left.

Blood and grime coated both their bodies. But neither seemed care. Jaime ducked his head, pressed his face to Brienne’s neck. Her breath was warm next to his ear. He relished in the sound of it, the heaven of her chest beneath her breastplate. 

They were alive. Somehow.

And he wasn’t going to waste that fact.

Missandei  
Almost as quickly as they had emerged, the dead Starks seemed to dissolve into dust on the crypt’s floor.

It was almost as if they’d never been there.

But they had been there. The evidence littered the floor in the form of the innocent women and children they’d murdered.

She was alive. 

The woman next to her sobbed softly, her son pressed tightly to her chest. They weren’t all gone. She had to remember that. Missandei turned to gaze at those who had shared her hiding spot. She had helped to pull at least five of them to safety.

She hadn’t done it alone, though.

Tyrion Lannister and Sansa Stark stood in the middle of the crypt, daggers still clutched in their hands. There was no mistaking the expressions of relief on both their faces.

The sight of Tyrion as he’d helped to pull people to safety had reminded her of the fighting pits, of him standing over her with a bloody knife and an outstretched hand.

She could admit, the words he’d exchanged with Lady Stark had put her on edge. The lady was hesitant to trust Daenerys and Missandei had worried that she might affect Tyrion’s loyalties.

Because he loved her.

The thought hit her like a slap as she stepped out into the dim light of the chamber. Yes, the queen’s hand loved that Stark girl. He looked a bit like Jorah, awe and admiration overtaking his face when he looked at the woman beside him. 

But he was like Daenerys. He would put the people first. And that meant supporting Daenerys. Sansa would pose no threat.

And the dead had seemingly been defeated. They had survived. 

Grey Worm. 

Was he alive?

Desperation sucked the air from her lungs. She turned to the doors of the crypt, wishing she could fling herself from the shelter she’d been offered. She needed to see him, to feel his breath on her face, to press feather-soft kisses to his worn skin.

He wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be dead.

She wasn’t the only anxious one, it seemed. The survivors poured from their places of safety, reaching out for their dead companions and drifting towards the still barred doors.

They had survived. But what was left of them?

Daenerys  
As the dead fell to the ground, so too did Jorah Mormont.

Daenerys gasped as he hit the ground. She fell to her knees, reaching for him.

There was blood on the ground. 

His armor was slick with it as she gathered him to her. His breath puffed against her face in short, irregular bursts. His eyes flickered.

Hot tears spilled down her cheeks. Her thumb brushed his soot stained face.

His energy was waning. She could tell how much concentration it took for him to hold her gaze, to look into her eyes instead of through them. He was slipping, far, far away. Drifting away to a place where she couldn’t follow.

Sobs, quiet and raw, slipped unbidden from her throat. She pressed her forehead to his, shaking desperately.

His mouth formed a soft smile. The movement tore at his dry lips, and blood pooled at the cracks.

Words spilled from her mouth, indecipherable even to her. There was so much to say. So much she couldn’t convey. 

She opened her eyes. Through the tears she could see warmth. He’d always looked at her like that, but it felt as if she were seeing it for the first time.

In reality, she was seeing it for the last.

The warmth in his eyes lingered for a moment after his chest ceased to rise, then faded into the chill of the early morning. Jorah Mormont slipped peacefully from the world of the living, cradled in the arms of the woman he had loved more than life itself.


End file.
